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Meg
The first few weeks with Cory’s card in my wallet, I worked hard to stay transparent.
About to use the card at CVS, I’d text. Then afterward $37.43 for shampoo plus new razors for you. That night I’d leave the paper receipt on his computer keyboard, where he’d be sure to see it.
But Cory quickly grew impatient with this routine. “Jesus, Meg,” he said one night, crumpling the receipts I’d left for him and tossing them in the trash. “This plus the constant texting is driving me crazy.” His voice rose a couple octaves, as if imitating mine. “‘I used the card for a parking meter on Seventh Street—$2 for two hours.’ I don’t need a play-by-play.”
“I just want to be open about what I’m spending,” I said. “It’s your money, after all.”
“Just do what you said you’d do. Buy the groceries and shut up about it.”
Okay, then.
***
As I got closer to my goal, I began to realize I was going to have to sell my car. The minivan that had once been my mother’s, my last remaining connection to her. That car had saved my life. It was my home, my escape hatch. It allowed me to live on my terms. But it also had a limited range, and I needed something that could take me across the country if necessary.
I spent several days thinking and rethinking my approach. If it failed, I’d be stuck with no transportation at all. No way to disappear when the time came.
I posted a listing on Craigslist: 1996 Honda Odyssey for sale. One owner. $6000 obo. and then my number.
I ended up selling it to a single mother with three kids. There was a kind of symmetry to that, of passing the car on to someone I knew my mother would approve of.
I signed the title over to her, filed the paperwork online with the DMV, and she was kind enough to drive me to the bank where I deposited $5,500 into my own bank account, and another $500 into Cory’s household account.
Then I took the bus home.
***
“You’re here,” Cory said when he entered the house later that night. “Where’s your car?”
I sighed hard and said, “Gone. Broke down on the side of the road. I called a tow truck and they took it to a mechanic. It would have cost $8,000 for a new transmission, another $5,000 for a new fuel system. More than the car was worth. I was lucky they were willing to give me $500 for it. I deposited it into the household account. Might as well contribute something.”
“You should have called me,” Cory said.
I shook my head. “It’s fine. It’s done.”
“You need a car to get to school every day. To get to your shift at work.”
I shrugged. “I can take the bus.”
There were two kinds of people in the world—those who viewed public transportation as a blessing and those who viewed it as a curse. Cory was the latter. “That’s going to tack hours onto your day,” he finally said.
“I don’t have much choice.”
Cory shook his head. “And how are you supposed to run all the errands? Get the groceries?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I told him. “I can wait until you get home from work and borrow your car in the evenings. Or take it on Saturdays and do everything at once.” I slipped my arms around his waist. “Plenty of households make one car work for them.”
He disengaged, irritated. “I can’t just sit around all weekend, waiting to use my own damn car.”
I raised my voice, frustrated. “Then I guess it’ll be the bus. And you can go back to hitting the grocery store after work.” As soon as I said the words, I knew I had him.
Over the last month, I’d made sure Cory had grown very comfortable being taken care of. He had zero responsibilities, everything magically appearing before he realized he needed or wanted it. Folded laundry that smelled like expensive dryer sheets. His favorite beer in the fridge. A new bar of soap in the shower, well before the old one was used up.
“That won’t work either.”
My voice grew thoughtful, as if an idea was just occurring to me. “I could always rent a car to run the errands.”
